Water Rats
by Marco Etheridge
Sasha brings up the rear, the last of four shadows etched silver under a quarter moon. Four nocturnal creatures feel the rocky trail through deerskin moccasins. The path is steep. Sasha cannot see the pipeline, but she knows they’re close.
Gregor leads the water rats. He is eldest with thirty summers. Then quiet Cecil, the hunter, with a sixth sense for danger. And ahead of Sasha, Aaron the bull, young and strong. Sasha is the tapper, quick-handed and small.
Sasha thinks numbers. Four rats to a team. Fifty liters each. A fifty-kilo load. The tribe’s survival hangs in the balance. Get the water back to Cottonwood and try not to die.
A soft call snaps her back.
Poor-will, poor-will…
Not a night bird, but Cecil, arm raised. The team freezes. A moonlit eternity waiting for the ruby slash of a laser or blast of a pulse weapon. But no. Cecil lowers his arm. The rats resume their climb.
Then Sasha sees the pipeline, a silhouette atop the ridge. Her fingers itch to touch cold steel. Sixty centimeters of pipe carrying sixty thousand liters a minute. More water than she can imagine. And all going to the urban sectors. The legacy of war.
Water to live, water to die for. The water wars raged for a bloody decade. Long before she was born, but Sasha knows her history. Old Camila sings the stories.
The wars ended in 2084, sixty-five years ago. To the victors, the spoils. The new junta controlled every water source. Water went to the urban sectors. The rest of the land went thirsty.
The junta maintains an iron grip. The penalty for stealing water is death. Drilling a well, diverting a stream; death. And tampering with a pipeline brings death with extreme prejudice.
The water rats push up the last slope. Climbing is easier than the descent. They carry no heavy weapons, only knives. No extra weight allowed. Fifty kilos are a heavy load.
They reach the pipeline. The quarter moon yields just enough to work. But in the secret hole beneath the pipe, all is black. A tapper works by touch and memory.
Each rat knows their task. Sasha unbuckles her harness and hands empty bladders to Aaron. Gregor sheds his bladders and disappears across the pipeline. Cecil adds his to the cache and slips down the trail. Eyes front and eyes rear.
On Sasha’s left, the pipeline disappears into a concrete monolith and reemerges two meters further on. The thrust block is the height of a man, designed to contain the pulsing energy of the water within.
Just right of the thrust block is a bolted flange. The flange looks like a thousand other joints spaced along the pipeline. But this flange is a subterfuge installed years ago by a tapper engineer. Dead now, but his memory lives on in Camila’s songs.
Sasha rolls onto her back, pushes with heels and elbows, crabs her way into a hidden burrow beneath the pipeline. Concrete on her right, broken rock on her left, and the pipe just above, the steel barrier between her people and life-giving water.
She hears the hiss of moving water, feels the pulsing flow. Her fingers find a concealed catch, and a section of the flange slides away, heavy in her hand.
Every movement is practiced and precise. Stow the flange section for replacement. Extract the feeder hose from her harness. Snap the hose fitting into the hidden one-way port. Twist hard and lock. She is ready.
Sasha kicks her foot to signal Aaron. The big man slides an empty bladder into the burrow. She pulls it over her torso like a blanket and attaches the hose to the bladder port. Takes a deep breath and braces for the coming weight.
Hose tight in one hand, ball valve in the other, Sasha twists the valve arm. The hose bucks under her grip. Water rushes into the bladder. Sasha counts the time. One-point-three liters per second; one-one thousand, two-one thousand. At fifteen, she snaps the valve closed. Fifty kilos of water press her into the earth. She kicks her foot, and the bladder slides away. She can breathe again.
The process repeats, five-six-seven-eight. Free of the last bladder, Sasha twists the hose out of the one-way port. A spray of water as the valve locks. She wipes the water from her face and licks her fingers clean.
She stows the hose, replaces the false section, and kicks her foot. Strong hands on her ankles as Aaron pulls her free.
The big man cups a hand to his mouth.
Poor-will, poor-will…
They wait. Gregor and Cecil materialize from the shadows. They wrestle the water-heavy bladders upright, snap them to each other’s harnesses.
Click-click…
The team turns away from the pipeline and begins the steep descent.
It happens at the very spot where Cecil paused on the ascent. Gregor goes down in the first volley. A sudden flash as a pulse projectile blows the man in two. Water and blood erupt in a cloud of illuminated steam. A sickening thud. Sasha has time for a single thought before lasers slice the night.
What a waste.
The ambush becomes a massacre. Aaron dodges the fire and releases his water bladders. Then he charges, knife flashing in the moonlight. A laser burns him in half before he takes two strides. Cecil is hit from two sides and is dead before he hits the ground. Sasha is last in line. She dashes off the trail, drops to the ground behind a mesquite clump, and freezes. The fusillade sputters to silence.
A man’s voice on the far side of the path.
“Is that all of them? I thought I counted four.”
“I saw three from my side.”
“Kerns, Russell, check the bodies. The rest of you stand and cover.”
“Yessir.”
Sasha hears heavy footsteps.
“Two here. They’re done for sure.”
“One here. Damn, this knife must be a hundred years old.”
“Cut the chatter. Slice those water bags, then everyone on me. Move!”
Sasha hears blades slide in sheaths, the soft gush of water onto dry ground. More footfalls and a murmur of voices, but she cannot make out the words.
She wills herself to be silent. The killer guards stalk past, so close she hears their breathing. Booted feet crunch up the trail toward the pipeline. She waits, then she’s up and moving in a crouch.
Sasha skirts away from the trail, intending to circle wide and then rejoin the path before it drops down the cliffs. Gregor taught her well. Poor Gregor.
Then, a voice in the darkness.
“One more step, and you die.”
Gregor leads the water rats. He is eldest with thirty summers. Then quiet Cecil, the hunter, with a sixth sense for danger. And ahead of Sasha, Aaron the bull, young and strong. Sasha is the tapper, quick-handed and small.
Sasha thinks numbers. Four rats to a team. Fifty liters each. A fifty-kilo load. The tribe’s survival hangs in the balance. Get the water back to Cottonwood and try not to die.
A soft call snaps her back.
Poor-will, poor-will…
Not a night bird, but Cecil, arm raised. The team freezes. A moonlit eternity waiting for the ruby slash of a laser or blast of a pulse weapon. But no. Cecil lowers his arm. The rats resume their climb.
Then Sasha sees the pipeline, a silhouette atop the ridge. Her fingers itch to touch cold steel. Sixty centimeters of pipe carrying sixty thousand liters a minute. More water than she can imagine. And all going to the urban sectors. The legacy of war.
Water to live, water to die for. The water wars raged for a bloody decade. Long before she was born, but Sasha knows her history. Old Camila sings the stories.
The wars ended in 2084, sixty-five years ago. To the victors, the spoils. The new junta controlled every water source. Water went to the urban sectors. The rest of the land went thirsty.
The junta maintains an iron grip. The penalty for stealing water is death. Drilling a well, diverting a stream; death. And tampering with a pipeline brings death with extreme prejudice.
The water rats push up the last slope. Climbing is easier than the descent. They carry no heavy weapons, only knives. No extra weight allowed. Fifty kilos are a heavy load.
They reach the pipeline. The quarter moon yields just enough to work. But in the secret hole beneath the pipe, all is black. A tapper works by touch and memory.
Each rat knows their task. Sasha unbuckles her harness and hands empty bladders to Aaron. Gregor sheds his bladders and disappears across the pipeline. Cecil adds his to the cache and slips down the trail. Eyes front and eyes rear.
On Sasha’s left, the pipeline disappears into a concrete monolith and reemerges two meters further on. The thrust block is the height of a man, designed to contain the pulsing energy of the water within.
Just right of the thrust block is a bolted flange. The flange looks like a thousand other joints spaced along the pipeline. But this flange is a subterfuge installed years ago by a tapper engineer. Dead now, but his memory lives on in Camila’s songs.
Sasha rolls onto her back, pushes with heels and elbows, crabs her way into a hidden burrow beneath the pipeline. Concrete on her right, broken rock on her left, and the pipe just above, the steel barrier between her people and life-giving water.
She hears the hiss of moving water, feels the pulsing flow. Her fingers find a concealed catch, and a section of the flange slides away, heavy in her hand.
Every movement is practiced and precise. Stow the flange section for replacement. Extract the feeder hose from her harness. Snap the hose fitting into the hidden one-way port. Twist hard and lock. She is ready.
Sasha kicks her foot to signal Aaron. The big man slides an empty bladder into the burrow. She pulls it over her torso like a blanket and attaches the hose to the bladder port. Takes a deep breath and braces for the coming weight.
Hose tight in one hand, ball valve in the other, Sasha twists the valve arm. The hose bucks under her grip. Water rushes into the bladder. Sasha counts the time. One-point-three liters per second; one-one thousand, two-one thousand. At fifteen, she snaps the valve closed. Fifty kilos of water press her into the earth. She kicks her foot, and the bladder slides away. She can breathe again.
The process repeats, five-six-seven-eight. Free of the last bladder, Sasha twists the hose out of the one-way port. A spray of water as the valve locks. She wipes the water from her face and licks her fingers clean.
She stows the hose, replaces the false section, and kicks her foot. Strong hands on her ankles as Aaron pulls her free.
The big man cups a hand to his mouth.
Poor-will, poor-will…
They wait. Gregor and Cecil materialize from the shadows. They wrestle the water-heavy bladders upright, snap them to each other’s harnesses.
Click-click…
The team turns away from the pipeline and begins the steep descent.
It happens at the very spot where Cecil paused on the ascent. Gregor goes down in the first volley. A sudden flash as a pulse projectile blows the man in two. Water and blood erupt in a cloud of illuminated steam. A sickening thud. Sasha has time for a single thought before lasers slice the night.
What a waste.
The ambush becomes a massacre. Aaron dodges the fire and releases his water bladders. Then he charges, knife flashing in the moonlight. A laser burns him in half before he takes two strides. Cecil is hit from two sides and is dead before he hits the ground. Sasha is last in line. She dashes off the trail, drops to the ground behind a mesquite clump, and freezes. The fusillade sputters to silence.
A man’s voice on the far side of the path.
“Is that all of them? I thought I counted four.”
“I saw three from my side.”
“Kerns, Russell, check the bodies. The rest of you stand and cover.”
“Yessir.”
Sasha hears heavy footsteps.
“Two here. They’re done for sure.”
“One here. Damn, this knife must be a hundred years old.”
“Cut the chatter. Slice those water bags, then everyone on me. Move!”
Sasha hears blades slide in sheaths, the soft gush of water onto dry ground. More footfalls and a murmur of voices, but she cannot make out the words.
She wills herself to be silent. The killer guards stalk past, so close she hears their breathing. Booted feet crunch up the trail toward the pipeline. She waits, then she’s up and moving in a crouch.
Sasha skirts away from the trail, intending to circle wide and then rejoin the path before it drops down the cliffs. Gregor taught her well. Poor Gregor.
Then, a voice in the darkness.
“One more step, and you die.”
For Sasha, the greatest shock of captivity is not the bars, the guards, or her claustrophobic cell. She possesses some understanding of these things, though she hates them. No, what she cannot fathom is the vast amount of water all around her.
Water to drink, as much as a person can hold, for the prisoners as well as the guards. Water spurting out of a shower and allowed to run down a drain. Such unimaginable waste!
In Cottonwood, an entire family bathes in one shallow tub, all using the same water. Baths happen once a week at most and then only in times of rain. Women first, followed by the men, then the children. And no one in Cottonwood pours water anywhere except on the beans or squash plants. Drains do not exist. In between bathes, her people scrub themselves with sand.
Behind these bars, everything is different. Sasha’s prison uniform is clean. The sheets on her bunk smell of laundry and soap and water. So much water. And most shocking of all, water in the toilet. Every time Sasha flushes the commode, she feels as if she’s committing a terrible crime.
Time is slow here. In Cottonwood, almost every waking moment is consumed by the struggle to survive. Find water, carry water, grow food. Sitting in her cell, Sasha has hours to think.
She wonders about the others: Gregor, Aaron, and Cecil. Did the killers leave them where they fell? She hopes so. The birds and beasts will strip their bodies clean. That is the proper way.
The prison guards do not act like killers. Instead, they treat Sasha as if she were a prize pig. They do not beat or abuse her. Food three times a day, more than she can eat. Clean bedding and a new uniform once a week.
Even her interrogator is polite and formal. He is older than the guards, grey at the temples. He seems more amused with her than angry. Sasha answers his questions with as few words as possible, but she does not lie.
“Your name is Sasha Cottonwood?”
“Yes.”
“And all your people are called Cottonwood?”
“That is our way.”
“And it is also your way to steal water, which is a capital offense.”
Sasha does not reply. The man sighs.
“How old are you, Sasha Cottonwood?”
“I have twenty-two summers.”
“So young. Too young to die in prison. Tell me, what would you do if we set you free? Where would you go?”
“Back to Cottonwood.”
“Even though your miserable village is dying of thirst?”
“Cottonwood is not dying. The rains will come again.”
“No, they won’t. The rains have failed. Our world has changed. That is why we control water. It is the greater good. You think we are killers, but that is not true. On the contrary, we save lives, hundreds of thousands of lives. You are too young to remember the water wars. Terrible times. I, myself, was born the same year the wars ended.”
The man stares at Sasha. She does not speak.
“There is no doubt that you are guilty. The penalty for your crime is death. I have one more question. If we allowed you a place in one of the urban sectors, a chance to be a productive citizen, would you accept?”
“No. I would go back to Cottonwood, to my people.”
A long pause.
“That I cannot do. Goodbye, Sasha Cottonwood.”
The man looks past her and raises his voice.
“Guard.”
Water to drink, as much as a person can hold, for the prisoners as well as the guards. Water spurting out of a shower and allowed to run down a drain. Such unimaginable waste!
In Cottonwood, an entire family bathes in one shallow tub, all using the same water. Baths happen once a week at most and then only in times of rain. Women first, followed by the men, then the children. And no one in Cottonwood pours water anywhere except on the beans or squash plants. Drains do not exist. In between bathes, her people scrub themselves with sand.
Behind these bars, everything is different. Sasha’s prison uniform is clean. The sheets on her bunk smell of laundry and soap and water. So much water. And most shocking of all, water in the toilet. Every time Sasha flushes the commode, she feels as if she’s committing a terrible crime.
Time is slow here. In Cottonwood, almost every waking moment is consumed by the struggle to survive. Find water, carry water, grow food. Sitting in her cell, Sasha has hours to think.
She wonders about the others: Gregor, Aaron, and Cecil. Did the killers leave them where they fell? She hopes so. The birds and beasts will strip their bodies clean. That is the proper way.
The prison guards do not act like killers. Instead, they treat Sasha as if she were a prize pig. They do not beat or abuse her. Food three times a day, more than she can eat. Clean bedding and a new uniform once a week.
Even her interrogator is polite and formal. He is older than the guards, grey at the temples. He seems more amused with her than angry. Sasha answers his questions with as few words as possible, but she does not lie.
“Your name is Sasha Cottonwood?”
“Yes.”
“And all your people are called Cottonwood?”
“That is our way.”
“And it is also your way to steal water, which is a capital offense.”
Sasha does not reply. The man sighs.
“How old are you, Sasha Cottonwood?”
“I have twenty-two summers.”
“So young. Too young to die in prison. Tell me, what would you do if we set you free? Where would you go?”
“Back to Cottonwood.”
“Even though your miserable village is dying of thirst?”
“Cottonwood is not dying. The rains will come again.”
“No, they won’t. The rains have failed. Our world has changed. That is why we control water. It is the greater good. You think we are killers, but that is not true. On the contrary, we save lives, hundreds of thousands of lives. You are too young to remember the water wars. Terrible times. I, myself, was born the same year the wars ended.”
The man stares at Sasha. She does not speak.
“There is no doubt that you are guilty. The penalty for your crime is death. I have one more question. If we allowed you a place in one of the urban sectors, a chance to be a productive citizen, would you accept?”
“No. I would go back to Cottonwood, to my people.”
A long pause.
“That I cannot do. Goodbye, Sasha Cottonwood.”
The man looks past her and raises his voice.
“Guard.”
That night, Sasha does not sleep. The guards come for her the next morning, polite and somber. They unlock the cell door. Sasha drinks one last glass of water, savoring every drop.
The guards bind Sasha’s hands. The electronic cuffs beep, then lock tight. They lead her down a long corridor, two guards ahead, two behind, and Sasha in the center. Some of the other cells are occupied. The prisoners stand behind the bars, watching her pass. Sasha does not recognize any of the faces yet knows them all.
At the end of the corridor, a steel door opens on the death chamber. It is a small, square room. A large mirror fills most of one wall. In the center of the chamber stands a glass booth. Inside the booth is a chair bolted to the floor. There are two holes beneath the chair. One is a large drain.
The guards do not speak. One unfastens a series of latches. The glass door swings open. A second guard removes the cuffs. A firm hand on her shoulder urges Sasha forward. She steps into the booth, turns, and sits. The guards strap her wrists, ankles, and waist. Then they close the door.
The guards stand shoulder to shoulder, facing the booth. Their faces are solemn. No one speaks. There is no ceremony. Without warning, water gurgles from a hidden pipe. Swirling, clean and pure, more water than Sasha can imagine. The water climbs past her knees, her waist, her chest. Her body wants to float away on the flood, but the straps hold her fast. One last breath, holding it, seeing the world awash in precious water. Then she is gone.
Sasha walks through Cottonwood. The packed earth is cool beneath her bare feet. People smile and greet her. It is good to be home. Together, they look to the morning sky. Perhaps today it will rain.
The guards bind Sasha’s hands. The electronic cuffs beep, then lock tight. They lead her down a long corridor, two guards ahead, two behind, and Sasha in the center. Some of the other cells are occupied. The prisoners stand behind the bars, watching her pass. Sasha does not recognize any of the faces yet knows them all.
At the end of the corridor, a steel door opens on the death chamber. It is a small, square room. A large mirror fills most of one wall. In the center of the chamber stands a glass booth. Inside the booth is a chair bolted to the floor. There are two holes beneath the chair. One is a large drain.
The guards do not speak. One unfastens a series of latches. The glass door swings open. A second guard removes the cuffs. A firm hand on her shoulder urges Sasha forward. She steps into the booth, turns, and sits. The guards strap her wrists, ankles, and waist. Then they close the door.
The guards stand shoulder to shoulder, facing the booth. Their faces are solemn. No one speaks. There is no ceremony. Without warning, water gurgles from a hidden pipe. Swirling, clean and pure, more water than Sasha can imagine. The water climbs past her knees, her waist, her chest. Her body wants to float away on the flood, but the straps hold her fast. One last breath, holding it, seeing the world awash in precious water. Then she is gone.
Sasha walks through Cottonwood. The packed earth is cool beneath her bare feet. People smile and greet her. It is good to be home. Together, they look to the morning sky. Perhaps today it will rain.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Power Tools is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Find him at https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/.